Not All Sunshine And Roses
by accioamber
Summary: House's childhood. When he was 17...yeah. Bad summary. R&R. VIOLENCE AND SWEARING...


Disclaimer: I don't own House or anything. That's David Shore's privelage. Lucky. Anyways…

A/N: Wanted to try and delve into little House's psyche and see what might be going on in there ;) R&R pleaseeee :D Oh yeah, intense language and fighting so if you don't like that don't read.

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"You're USELESS! You're going nowhere, absolutely nowhere, Gregory, and you're heading there damn quickly. A hell of a lot quicker than either your mother or I would've wished. You're a disgrace, an embarrassment."

"John…" Blythe tried failingly to control her husband's raging temper against their seventeen year old son. Her hands fluttered in nervousness as her eyes flicked back and forth from her husband to her boy.

"No, Blythe! The kid's got no work ethic to speak of. No job, no car, no money. Terrible grades in school. You're GRADUATING in nine months, Greg. Do you get that? Can it penetrate your thick skull?" John asked, spit flying from his mouth. His anger was incredible; he seemed much larger than the 220 pound, 6' even man that he was.

Greg didn't shrink away from his father like he usually did. In fact, he basically just stood up a little straighter and stared him down.

Finally, John was done. He stood his ground and said, "Well, anything to say, Gregory?"

Greg cleared his throat, and said, in a low, but clear, voice, "Fuck you."

At first, John didn't know what to say. His son had never stood up to him this way before. He usually would just murmur something about being sorry and that he'd try harder. Most parents would start screaming at their child for saying that, but John was different. Different wasn't always better, however.

John took a menacing step toward his son and then tossed over his shoulder, "Blythe, leave the room, please." He didn't say it angrily, but he said it forcefully, shoving meaning behind his words.

Blythe gave Greg a look, a pleading look that said "I'm sorry, I tried, but do what he wants you to do." Greg gave a look back that clearly said, "I just can't do that anymore." She ducked her head and walked quickly into the kitchen, banging pots and pans around and beginning supper.

John looked at Greg and brought his face inches from Greg's before sneering in a low toned voice, "You think you're so clever, don't you, you little asshole. You think you can upstage me. Me, John House. I'm in the Marines, and I could kick your ass up and down this street so hard you wouldn't remember who you were. So don't you ever even think of saying anything like that to me ever again. Or I will make sure your own mother could look at you and you wouldn't know who she was. Got it?"

Greg's breathing became shallow, and his blood was boiling. He was seething with rage inside of him. He was tired of taking his father's bullshit. Since he'd been about six or seven years old and his dad brought the back of his hand to Greg's still chubby cheek for spilling water on the carpet, this rage had been building up. And now, ten years later, his inner dam broke, and his rage overflowed.

"You fucking asshole!" Greg yelled, and brought his fist back and to John House's jaw. The crack of his jaw and the blood that spilled out of his mouth was oddly satisfying. That should've been enough for him, and it would've been, if John hadn't looked up and smiled, wiping a trail of blood off of his lip, and said seethingly, "Finally, you've showed an ounce of self worth."

Greg took a deep breath and tried to contain himself. Needless to say, as he launched his whole body at his father, it didn't work. His fists began flying, his feet began kicking, and as his did, his father's did too. His father had marine training, though, and Greg had no training at all. He suspected now that the reason his father had denied him karate lessons all those years was because he was predicting this very situation.

It didn't last long. All it took was an elbow to the face from his father, (after a kick to the shin and a punch to the jaw) to send Greg sprawling to the floor with a yell, bleeding and in pain. He looked at John with indignation, but did not start fighting again.

Blythe burst into the room at the sound of her son's yell. "John!" she yelled, rushing to Greg's side and gently touching his quickly swelling jaw, and then looking at his right cheek where John had elbowed him. "How could you do this? Just because you were mad at him?"

John tried to defend himself. "Blythe, the kid attacked me. He's bad news. I've been telling you this for three months, that this was going to happen."

Blythe looked into Greg's eyes. "Greg, is that true? Did you attack your dad first?" She wanted to believe that her baby, her son, would never do something like that. But the look in Greg's eyes, and she saw the truth. He never could lie to her. She slowly backed away from him, still facing him, but not looking him in the eyes anymore.

She went over to John and kissed his cheek, the space that wasn't bruised or bloody. "I'm so sorry, baby." She said to him, "I'm so sorry I didn't believe you."

Greg struggled to stand up, and he left the living room, left his "parents". He packed a bag, and that night he was on a train to who knows where.


End file.
